


miseros morsu

by gabriphales



Series: gomens drabble hell [73]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Hurt No Comfort, Internal Monologue, M/M, They/Them Pronouns for Raphael (Good Omens), im so tired this is just gabe waah waahing over crowley/raphael ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: gabriel still misses his favorite archangel
Relationships: Crowley/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: gomens drabble hell [73]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664713
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	miseros morsu

**Author's Note:**

> i have writers block again so sad gabriel is all i can summon from my sore aching bones goodnight

gabriel misses it.

he misses the soft red, the blazing light - colors dousing curls, little ringlets that trail down the pale angles of thin shoulders. he misses knuckles pressing into his own, sharing the first touches of their heavenly-endowed human forms. holding raphael's hand had been a treasure. he wants it back more than anything, yet less than he can say aloud.

their eyes were so golden it had almost hurt to meet their gaze with equal ferocity. and they had looked upon everything with fierceness. an unspeakable, unmentioned intensity. like heat, fire so hot it burned white. gabriel had never wanted to look away, he'd only ever wanted to hold on. his hand aches to curl in a circular lock, right around a wrist that isn't there anymore.

he doesn't dare admit to knowing - to _remembering_ what had become of raphael. it hadn't been his sword to strike them down. and though he can't begrudge michael for applying justice to duty, he'll never be quite as close with her as he was with raphael. then again, he isn't that close with anybody. perhaps, that was a cruel test of god's meant to weigh over his shoulders, forcing him to turn his back on temptation every morning, every evening, every afternoon.

and he does. that's all that he can do. but his throat is getting sore, wound tight from words that clot and catch between his teeth. and his chest hurts, pins and needles tied with thread to the caged inside of his ribs. every breath brings him closer to bloodletting.

when michael pushes those photos across his desk, laminated and well-aged, ancient as they are deadly, gabriel remembers even more. and he'd give anything - _anything_ to dull how well he recalls. how his vision centers in on those curls, the ever-shifting hair of a diabolical creature at aziraphale's side. and he knows, he knows regardless of the lost color, that those curls have to be red. 

he wants to touch them again. this is the cruelest god has ever been.

**Author's Note:**

> fucking * dies * thanks for coming to the show


End file.
